


The Hound Of The Baskervilles (1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [111]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Collars, Destiel - Freeform, Dogs, Extortion, F/M, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Organized Crime, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Theft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 05:05:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11120487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: Sherlock and John meet the inimitable Mr. Marcus Crowley over an outbreak of dog theft in rural Hertfordshire, and Sherlock receives an unusual gift from his brother Gaylord.





	The Hound Of The Baskervilles (1889)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Avanie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avanie/gifts).



Sherlock had clients of all shapes and sized during the years we hunted together. Tall or short, male or female, young or old, rich or poor, noble or charlady; they all came through the door of our Baker Street home, seeking his help. But the person who requested his assistance on what would turn out to be our next case together was unusual, and his request even more so. For he was one of London’s foremost criminals, and his request would end in Sherlock himself committing an act of theft!

It was August, and the papers were full of the opening of the Savoy Hotel, and how the cream of London society were vying with each other for a chance to stay there. I had to admire the sagacity of the owner, Mr. D'Oyly Carte; by limiting access to his hotel’s plush rooms, he had most cunningly created a surfeit of demand. Sherlock’s irritating brother Gaylord had just been employed as one of the managers at the hotel, and our next client was, perhaps surprisingly in the circumstances, recommended to us by him.

I had had that particular horror of all doctors, a night call, having been summonsed to one of my richer clients at the ungodly hour of one a.m. Annoyingly it turned out to be nothing more than wind, brought on by over-eating; I may or may not have proscribed some particularly unpleasant and expensive medicine for the woman who deprived me of my Sherlock and my bed. 

I returned to Baker Street at just after eight, mercifully in time for breakfast. I chanced to meet the postman on his way in and took his deliveries to the hall table, separating out the two letters for me and one very badly wrapped package for Sherlock; indeed, it all but fell apart as I entered the room, to reveal a small sealed envelope and a dog-collar. A surprisingly large one, I thought.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom a few moments after I arrived, and I handed the letter and collar to him. He opened and read the letter, and seemed to be blushing for some reason. 

“Is something wrong?” I asked, worried.

“A Mr. Marcus Crowley wishes to call on us”, he said, placing the collar in his desk and locking the draw.

“Is there a reason as to why this gentleman forewarns us of his arrival?” I inquired. Only the richest clients usually acted in this way; most just turned up unannounced.

Sherlock smiled at me.

“Since the retirement of our friend Mr. Khrushnic to fair Burgundy, Mr. Crowley has become one of the top criminals in our fair city.”

“And he wishes to consult you on some matter?” I asked.

“Indeed”, he said. “Not only that, but he has been recommended by my brother Gaylord. Mr. Crowley was one of the first guests at the Savoy, so we are clearly dealing with someone…. unusual.”

I had no idea just how accurate that statement would prove to be.

+~+~+

Mr. Marcus Crowley arrived punctually for his appointment later that same morning. He was a dapper if somewhat rotund gentleman, about forty-five years of age and with one of those ‘stubble beards’ which were currently fashionable for some inexplicable reason (I much preferred my friend's permanently-unshaven look). Our visitor carried himself as if were fully aware of his status, but there was a haunted look in his eyes. Introductions were made, and he sat down in the fireside chair.

“I know that you are a man of some understanding, sir”, he said, in what was definitely a North of England accent. “And I know that you pursue justice rather than the law. Even if I were inclined to try the latter, I am certain that it would fail me. You are all I have.”

He sounded almost desperate, I thought. Sherlock looked quizzically at him. 

“Someone in your position has many more options open to them than most of our city's denizens”, he said. “Why come to me?”

“Because of my dog.”

Well, that explained the collar, I thought. The thing that usually wore that had to have been an Afghan hound, at least. Possibly with some horse in its bloodline.

“I married my good lady wife Margaret some ten years ago”, our guest said, “and we have been blessed with two wonderful sons. Since they were of an age where we thought that they could manage the responsibility, we acceded to their pesterings to obtain a dog. My country house is in the village of Watton-at-Stone, which lies a little way to the north of Hertford, and we have a large back garden as well as nearby fields, so all was set fair – until they returned from the dogs' home with the mangiest, most pitiful excuse for a canine that I had ever set eyes on! Gentlemen, I cannot even begin to describe the sheer ugliness of the beast! It is part-bulldog, part-some sort of terrier, and frankly sheer hideousness on four legs! Yet when they brought it home, the damn thing somehow managed to clamber up into my chair and plonked itself on top of me, and those eyes…..”

His own eyes had gone wet at the memory.

“A dog can worm its way into a man’s heart as easily as a child”, Sherlock said softly.

“He did”, Mr. Crowley said. “The boys called him Growley, partly because of his strange attraction to me – I could not stop anywhere in the house without him attempting to plaster himself on top of me – but mostly because the white patch on what passes for his face resembles a letter ‘G’. He was the lamest excuse for a dog that ever was, but we all loved him.”

“And now he is gone?” Sherlock asked. Our visitor nodded.

“The damnable thing is, I know who has him!” he almost snarled, and I was reminded of the dark side of the man that we had before us. “I would happily tear him limb from limb and take great pleasure doing it, but he told me in a letter – and he boasted about it, the rat! – that Growley was being kept under guard, and the two men posted on him had instructions to shoot the dog at once if any rescue attempt was made. My wife and children would be heartbroken if that happened. Gentlemen, I am desperate!”

I could see how near he was to tears, and I felt moved despite the man’s status. His dog clearly meant everything to him, and the threat to its life was terrible. Sherlock pressed his fingers together in thought.

“I will help you”, he said, “but I will need full details on the man who has your dog.”

Our visitor seemed to relax at that.

“Thank you, sir”, he said fervently. “The man’s name is Sir George Baskerville, of Greystock Hall, not far from my house and just outside the town of Hitchin. We crossed swords over the purchase of some land that lay between our properties, and I knew that he resented losing out to me. I did not appreciate just how much, until it was too late.”

Sherlock nodded.

“I am aware of the man”, he frowned. “One of the less reputable businessmen to grace our fair city; I have heard tales of his ruining people merely to make a few extra pounds profit, and I am aware that he has actually gone on record as saying that philanthropy is a disease that affects only other, lesser mortals. You are absolutely certain that he has the dog, and is not just taking advantage of its disappearance?”

“He told me of a small distinctive mark behind poor Growley’s ear, one only someone who had got extremely close could have known about”, our visitor said. “My sons are desperate to get the dog back – naturally I have not told them of its whereabouts – and my wife is grievously upset.”

“Have you any information on the man’s family?” Sherlock asked. Our visitor looked surprised.

“Yes”, he said. “He is married, with four children. Margaret says that his wife helps out at local functions, although she only knows the lady by sight. Is that important?”

“It may be for what I have in mind”, Sherlock said with a smile. “If you would be so good as to leave us a card, I will contact you when we have news.”

Mr. Crowley bowed, placed a single card on the table and left.

+~+~+

“You are helping the criminal classes again?” I observed once we were alone.

“That man is one of the top criminals of our generation”, Sherlock said thoughtfully, “yet he has been brought low because something he loves has been taken from him. I am far from an emotional man, but I can empathize.”

I looked across at my blue-eyed genius of a friend and wondered; what if some tragedy were to take him out of my life once more? I would surely be unable to cope. 

I could not then know that I was barely a year and a half away from experiencing that particular horror, and that it would be far, far worse than before.

+~+~+

I had read through Mr. Crowley’s file on Sir George Baskerville with interest. It was certainly very thorough, right down to how he had his eggs for breakfast (scrambled, well done and with a dash of Worcestershire Sauce). The villain was fifty-three years of age, and had married a Miss Eirene Williams some twenty-five years ago, their having subsequently had four children together. Of these, George had married (initially against his parents' wishes) and now had two sons of his own, Albert was engaged to a lady who owned a small flower-shop in the city (this match had also been opposed, though less strongly than that of the elder son), Victoria had married a businessman and had moved to his home in Cheshire, where she was expecting her first child in a few months, whilst Alice was still single and living at home. There was further information about servants and such that I did not find at all interesting, so it annoyed me somewhat when Sherlock told me that the answer to our case lay in the dossier.

My friend made a couple of journeys on the two days of the week when I was attending the surgery (by this time I had taken on more private clients, and also wanted more time for my writings), but he did not inform me of any results of these travels. Until one evening when he told me we had been invited by his brother Gaylord to dine at the Savoy Hotel. When I stared at him suspiciously, he laughed.

“You always suspect me of some underhand motive, doctor”, he chuckled.

“Often with good reason”, I said pointedly. “So I can be sure that our dinner this evening will be uneventful?”

Aha! He blushed and looked away.

“A free meal at one of the best hotels in London”, he said teasingly. “And the chance to all but close this case for Mr. Crowley.”

“And get his dog back?” I asked.

“Eventually”, Sherlock said. “Will you come?”

“Of course”, I said. “I cannot let you go roaming around the city on your own. Heaven only knows what trouble you would get into!”

He smiled, and I went to get ready.

+~+~+

The restaurant at the Savoy was far more high-class than any place in which I had ever dined before, and I felt half afraid to touch the crockery and plates, which I could never have afforded. The gentle sound of a piano playing in the background did little to soothe my nerves at being so obviously out of my natural environment. The only upside was that I knew of many of the people present, thanks to my very occasional glancing at the society pages on extremely rare occasions.

I glared warningly at my companion. If he so much as sniggered, I was turning round and going straight back to Baker Street!

We were shown to our table by Mr. Gaylord Holmes, who for some reason always made me feel slightly uncomfortable. He very obviously shared his family's dislike of our relationship, but he knew full well that voicing those objections would cause Sherlock to cut him off rather than me (and worse for him, would invoke the ire of their frankly terrifying mother), so he was noticeably wary around Sherlock, who looked pointedly at him before he sat down. We ordered our meals, and then watched as the _hoi polloi_ of London society filtered into the restaurant. I thought wryly that a jewel thief would have thought that he had died and gone to Heaven!

A particularly opulently-dressed lady seated herself at a table across from our own, her neck glistening with a rather gaudy diamond necklace. The man who seated her before taking his own place opposite was smaller and mean-looking, also with rather too much superfluous jewellery on his person, and even though I had no idea who he was, I disliked him on sight. Any man who wore that much gold was, in my opinion, a show-off. Mr. Gaylord Holmes appeared at the lady's side as if by magic, and she ordered for both of them in a tone that reminded me of a barking spaniel. 

Sherlock leant across the table.

“Sir George and Lady Eirene Baskerville”, he said. 

I noticed that Sherlock's brother was saying something to Lady Eirene who started, before rising to her feet and sailing across the floor to our table. Her husband scurried after her, clearly knowing his place. I was reminded of our recent case with another formidable member of the fairer sex, Mrs. Emmeline Strong; I could easily guess as to exactly who wore the trousers in this relationship, too.

“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” she barked. 

Half the people in the room must have heard her. We both stood and bowed.

“I am Lady Eirene Baskerville, and I _demand_ your services on a most important and vital matter”, she said, even more loudly. “I have been the victim of a most heinous and unpardonable crime!”

“Madam”, Sherlock said smoothly, “I shall of course be delighted to hear your case. However, as we are both dining at this estimable institution, may I suggest that we continue our meals, and that we then adjourn to your room here so that you can explain exactly what it is you require, and how I may be of service to so noble a family as yours.”

I stared, dumbfounded! Lady Eirene was fifty if she was a day, but she was now openly simpering at Sherlock, with her husband right there behind her. What on earth was it about the man that made virtually ever woman he met act like a teenage girl? And then she actually sighed!

No, I did _not_ growl, whatever a certain someone claimed afterwards!

“Of course”, she said, and Heavens to Betsy, she was now batting her eyelashes at him (I was going to start making fake vomiting motions in a moment!). “We are in room thirty-one. I shall _so_ look forward to seeing you there.” 

She turned to her husband, and her tone changed markedly.

“George!”

Sir George Baskerville might be a terror of the City of London, but he clearly knew his place where his wife was concerned. He scurried back across the room and held her chair ready for her. I hid my smile in a glass of water; it was rather funny to see a grown man so obviously whipped.

Why was my friend smirking just then? I glared suspiciously at him.

+~+~+

Room thirty-one was positively cavernous as well as far too hot, and Lady Baskerville was waiting for us on the couch. I took the table and held my notebook ready, whilst the lady's husband stood by the fire, scowling slightly. Sherlock sat in the chair next to the couch, whilst I pointedly ignored the ongoing simpering.

“Now, Lady Baskerville”, Sherlock said firmly, “please tell me the circumstances of this most heinous and horrible crime.”

She shuddered (so did the couch).

“I am glad to hear you call it such, Mr. Holmes, because it was truly, truly _barbaric_!” she said, wiping her eyes. “Earlier this week, some cruel, evil person stole Muffin!”

She seemed to think that this was self-explanatory. Sherlock pursed his lips.

“I shall, of course, need a full description of this 'Muffin'”, he said. How he uttered that name without laughing, I do not know. 

“Muffy-poos” (my eyes were watering at this point) “is my sweet dear pet, a top-quality best-pedigree King Charles Spaniel that George here got for me when my daughter Victoria married and moved to Cheshire”, she explained. “The finest of her breed, and we kept her beautifully, but the servants took her out into the garden on Monday and... and.... somebody managed to _steal_ her!”

Sherlock pressed his fingers together in thought.

“Madam”, he said carefully, “I am afraid that I must begin my investigation by asking you a question of some delicacy, but which is necessary for my understanding of the case. Is Muffin a male or female dog?”

“A bitch”, her husband said roundly. She turned on him.

“George!” she thundered. “Bedroom! Now!”

I wondered if 'Muffin' had been as well-trained as Lady Eirene's husband, who vanished into the next room. The term 'fled' might have been appropriate.

“George is all well and good when it comes to business, but he has no sense for the important things in life”, she said starchily. “Why did you ask that question?”

Sherlock hesitated.

“You are clearly a lady of strong character, Lady Baskerville”, he said slowly, “so I will be honest with you. As your dog is a high-quality pedigree breed, it is almost certain that she was stolen so that people could obtain more high-quality pups from her.”

The lady went pale at the idea.

“But that also means that she will be exceptionally well taken-care of”, Sherlock hastened to add. “They will not wish to harm the goose that might lay them the golden eggs, as the saying goes. And it is unlikely that anything will happen in the next few weeks, because they will have to also find and obtain an equally high-quality pedigree male dog, which will not be easy.”

“Will you come to Hertfordshire and investigate this horrible crime?” she demanded.

Sherlock shook his head.

“I think in this instance, it is better that I stay in London”, he said. When the lady looked set to object, he quickly continued. “For two reasons. Firstly, if they become aware that I am on the case, the thieves may hasten their, ahem, preparations for your dear pet, which is something we most definitely do not wish to happen. And secondly, I have a number of contacts in the criminal world here who, I think, may prove useful in locating who is behind this most foul and loathsome deed.”

She looked a little put out that Sherlock was not returning home with her, but sighed in resignation.

“However”, he said, “I do think it is important that I have as many details on that dreadful day as you can furnish, Lady Baskerville. I would like you to take the rest of this evening to write down _exactly_ what happened on that day, with times if you can remember them, and with names and descriptions of all the people involved. Then I would recommend that you have a good night's sleep, and when you wake up tomorrow, review your notes and see if you can recall anything else. I often find it surprising how many things people remember after they have thought and then rested. You return to Hertfordshire tomorrow?”

“Yes”, she said. “George, of course, is staying on for business.”

She said it with something approaching a sneer. I thought wryly that it was her husband's business which kept her in expensive clothes and gaudy jewels. And paid for... 'Muffy-poos'!

“Perhaps you could ask your husband to drop by Baker Street with your notes, at around eleven tomorrow morning?” Sherlock said, rising to his feet. “This is my card. We had best leave you now, so that you can devote your attention to those important details of your most terrible day, and that I may immediately begin my investigations. I promise you that I will contact you directly I have news, and I hope that that may be very soon. Good day, Lady Baskerville.”

We left the room.

+~+~+

“You have the dog yourself” I asked, once we were safely ensconced back in our rooms at Baker Street.

To my surprise he shook his head.

“Not as such”, he said. “I employed the services of Mr. Albert Moray to secure the animal.”

“I have not met him”, I said.

“He is a most unusual character”, Sherlock said. “He has this ability – I would almost call it God-given – to attract any canine to his person, regardless of how loyal that dog may be to its owner. He is not a criminal as such; I would say he is more on the side of the dogs, and he will work for almost anyone provided that the interests of his canine friends are paramount. It was easy for him to lure Muffin away, and he has her safely at his house in the East End. She will quite probably be better cared for there than in Hertfordshire.”

“Might not Sir George work out that he is involved?” I wondered. My friend shook his head.

“Sir George and Mr. Moray do not move in the same circles”, Sherlock said. “I paid handsomely for Mr. Moray's services, for which I do not mind – he spends every penny that he gets on his beloved dogs – but I fully expect Lady Baskerville to compensate me when Muffin is returned.”

“Muffin”, I muttered. “She called it Muffin! 'Muffy-poos'!”

We looked at each other, and we both burst out laughing.

+~+~+

Sir George Baskerville arrived at Baker Street the next morning with the promised notes. He was not in a good mood.

“I know your game, Mr. Holmes!” he sneered. “You stole that dratted dog. Where is it?”

“Sit down, Sir George”, Sherlock said calmly. “It is cold outside, and you look like you could do with a drink, despite what the scientists say about alcohol and low temperatures. You will be delighted to know that Muffin is both fine and well-cared for - as, I am sure, is Growley.”

The businessman glared at us both.

“You're working for that bastard Crowley, aren't you?” he said coarsely. “This is the sort of thing he'd do all right!”

“I assure you, the removal of your dog was my idea”, Sherlock said. “And her return is totally in your own hands. All you need do is to contact the men whom you have assigned to watch Growley, and order them to bring him here, safe and unharmed. Once he is restored to his rightful owner, Muffin will be returned to Lady Baskerville.”

“I'll have you for this!” he growled.

“I do not think so”, Sherlock said firmly. “Because if you take _any_ retaliatory action against either the doctor or myself, or even Growley and his master, then your good lady wife will be informed of _your_ role in this whole sorry affair. And I do not need to be a detective of any calibre to know that she might not be best pleased!”

I do not think I have ever seen a man turn pale so quickly. He had been stood by the chair, but he almost fell to the floor in shock.

“You would not!” he said incredulously. “She would kill me!”

“Almost certainly”, Sherlock smiled. “Kindly ensure that Growley is delivered here early this afternoon, Sir George. I am expecting Mr. Crowley at five, so I would not wish to be delayed. The walk to the post office is a short one, and I did promise that I would keep your wife informed by telegram.”

He stared at us both with a fierce hatred, but he knew that he had lost. With a snarl, he turned on his heel and stormed from the room.

+~+~+

Growley was duly delivered to Baker Street just after lunch, and my first impression was that his owner had, if anything, understated his sheer ugliness. He padded into the room after Sherlock, gave me a dirty look, then collapsed in front of the fire. Sherlock sat down in the chair next to him and unfolded his paper; the dog looked up at him, then seemed to dismiss him as harmless and went back to just lying there. 

The only odd thing about the dog (sheer ugliness apart) was that he was a medium-sized animal, and I knew that the unseen Muffin, being a King Charles Spaniel, would be a small dog. Yet the collar that Sherlock had received in the post had definitely been for a large beast.

His owner arrived at a quarter to five, clearly anxious, and the dog was growling even before he was through the door, waddling over to him to be picked up and held against the man's chest. There was no doubt that this was an emotional reunion on both sides, and both Sherlock and I looked away for a while.

“I can never thank you enough, sir”, Mr. Crowley said once he had sat down, his dog on his lap living up to his name. “How did you manage it?”

“We all have our secrets”, Sherlock said with a smile. “It is a pleasure to bring you back together again, and I can assure you that Sir George Baskerville has been informed that any retaliatory action against Growley or yourself in the future would be most unwise on his part.”

The man petted his dog, who grunted in pleasure.

“How much do I owe you?” he asked.

To my surprise Sherlock shook his head.

“The price for my services in this case may be a high one for you, Mr. Crowley”, he said levelly. “Or it may be nothing at all. Because we move in similar circles, it may be that at some future time, I have need of certain services that only _you_ are in a position to provide. Should that ever be the case, my price for the restoration of your family pet is that, if or when that time comes, you answer my request for help, regardless of the cost.”

Our visitor looked anxious at that, but he was clearly in no position to decline such a request. He placed Growley on the floor and slipped a collar and lead on, then he and Sherlock shook hands and he left.

+~+~+

Of course, I had to go and say it. 

“I wonder why he sent you such a large dog-collar when he sought your help”, I said as we sat on the couch that evening. 

Sherlock blushed. I looked at him, confused.

“My brother Gaylord was having a joke at my expense”, he said acidly. 

I still did not get it. He sighed.

“The collar was not for a canine”, he said quietly.

Then I got it. My mouth fell open.

“He thinks I treat you as some sort of pet!” I almost snapped.

He looked at me awkwardly, and finally, I got it. Oh. Oh!

“The collar was for me, wasn't it”, I said quietly. It made sense now; the green markings around the outside. Sherlock nodded awkwardly.

“He even had a metal disk with your name put on it”, he said bitterly. “I told him that I was half-minded to decline the case as a result!”

I grinned.

“You should write to him and tell him that I wore it for you!” I said.

He looked at me in surprise, then laughed.

+~+~+

Two days later, Sherlock received a long letter of gratitude from Lady Baskerville for the safe return of Muffin, who was apparently none the worse for her adventure. Her owner also added that, for some strange reason, her husband had recently developed an allergy to dog hair.

+~+~+

Curiously, our next adventure would also involve a canine, one which inadvertently caused some problems for its master.


End file.
